Gay Chicken
by Brahtson
Summary: According to Ghost, it's not gay unless their balls touch.


Captain MacTavish is off holding a meeting with Shepherd and a few of his aides. Archer and Toad are having their weekly sniper training in the downpour of a stormy weekend afternoon, Royce is in the lounge room reading Oprah while the others are probably watching Trainspotting again and Meat; well Meat is prone to accidents, whatever he does. But right now Roach's mind is doing a pretty darn good impression of a leaking tap and all of the aforementioned factors means his choices for entertainment is very limited.

Roach stretches on his bed and halts mid-yawn when he sees the door of his room swing open.

"Hey," Roach says. Ghost nods at him and shuts the door. "You're not in the meeting?"

"No, that's why I'm here," his Lieutenant says, inviting himself to sit on Royce's bed. "I thought we could 'ave a talk. Or just hang out."

Roach draws a sharp breath through his teeth. He's not exactly proficient when it comes to making small talk, per se. He dives into his mind's pool of ideas to search for a topic starter. Beer? Mundane. Guns? Talked about them a thousand times, daily too. Chicks? Dear Lieutenant will divert it to bones. Past experiences? Not a good idea, he has heard bits and pieces from Ghost and they all seem to plunge the temperature of the room.

He decides to jump it, anyway.

"So, what kind of bones do you like most in a woman?" Roach asks.

Ghost smiles and says, "Mine." That was too easy.

Ten seconds of silence. A Lieutenant's eyes linger on his subordinate for a second too long. Roach fakes a coughing fit. Ghost diverts his attention to an immensely fascinating crease on his shirt. It is interesting, really, how his PT shirt has creases like these. He has never noticed these kinds of creases before. They never appear in his civilian shirts. They're magical creases. Suddenly he looks up and turns to Roach.

"Roach, let's play a game," he says, face lighting up like an artillery tracer shell across the night sky.

"What game?"

"I don't know, gay chicken?" he suggests. "C'mere."

"But.."

"No, c'mere."

Sanderson sits up and stares at the other man. "Don't be a fanny," Ghost says. "First to back out buys the other a drink."

Shit.

Roach plays along, leaning in, trying to not to make eye contact. He concentrates on the lips instead. They look soft. He doesn't know anyone else with lips as cherry as this officer. But _darn_, he can feel the other man's breath on his lips already. Surprisingly, his higher in command smells of mints.

Eventually Ghost breaks the near contact. "Guess I'm it," he sighs. Roach sighs as well, only in relief. "Let's have at it again, hands this time."

Roach's jaw slacks. "We'll get into trouble."

Ghost moves up to him. "Nobody knows. And I'm not going to be the only one buying."

There comes a point where the safer, wiser decision is to stop. In Simon Riley's mind, though, when the excitement of 'Gay Chicken' has been exhausted, it's time to move on to 'Flinch', which is admittedly more fun when you're a pubescent lad and the hand that's stroking up your thigh belongs to a blushing girl.

Both men have not been touched below the waist by anyone except themselves for months. Now Roach's package seems to think that Ghost's hand is close enough to be a distraction. Roach strains hard to control himself but his superior breathing down his neck doesn't help a fucking bit. Gary Sanderson thinks his good friend is doing it on purpose, as if his discomfort is somehow entertaining to witness. On a second thought, it probably is to Ghost. Roach shudders.

"You just flinched mate," Ghost whispers into his ears, voice soft and a tad scratchy. Roach can actually fucking _hear_ and _feel_ him crack a smile, even. He tries not to look as nerve-wrecked as he really is when Ghost slowly withdraws his damned hand from up the leg opening of his shorts. By this time, sweat has stained the back of his shirt. He bites down on his lower lip to stop the quivering and tries to look normal and unfazed. As normal as one can be after that. Unfortunately, his pants give it away.

Ghost notices it. And Roach knows he noticed it. Lieutenant Riley snorts softly, because apparently his Sergeant is attracted to him.

"I know you like me from the looks you throw, but," Ghost says. He couldn't keep the amused smile off his face and he whistles in amazement.

"It's embarrassing is what it is," Roach mumbles, looking honestly apologetic.

"It's not gay unless our balls touch," Ghost states with all the seriousness he could muster. "Go on, have a wank," he says. Roach, in a true awkward fashion, stands up and heads for the door. As he does so, Ghost slaps him on the bottom.

Roach freezes and turns to him, frowning. "Stop teasing me."

"You just make it too easy bruv," Ghost replies, stretching on Roach's bed and making it his own. With Roach out of the room, he dreams about the beer, and of possibly inviting MacTavish to drink with them, just to mess with Roach. He whistles at the thought and thinks about how smooth the game went. Because if Roach had taken a closer look at the officer's pants, he would have found a bone pointed at his arse. That _would_ have gotten them into trouble.


End file.
